Often people winder where I find all of our tattooed poets. Many come to us via word-of-mouth and through social media. This year, I found an anthology of poets "under 25," and figured that would be a good resource. Today's post, along with a few others, originated from that volume.

Today's tattooed poet is Kayla Sargeson. She is sharing this whimsical tattoo, which is her ninth:

This is Kayla's tattoo of an alien head that proclaims “I like chicken.” The artist is Pete Larkin at Kyklops Tattoo in Pittsburgh, PA.

I'll let Kayla explain the rest:

For the past year-and-a-half, I’ve been pursuing my MFA in Chicago, a city I’ve grown to hate. I feel like I don’t fit this city, or maybe it just doesn’t fit me. Regardless, I feel like an alien here that had to leave her home planet. Thus the alien tattoo. I go back and forth between Chicago and Pittsburgh often and during one of these visits, my mentor Jan Beatty was dropping me off at Kyklops [Tattoo]. She said “why don’t you have your alien say ‘I like chicken.’” I thought this was the funniest thing in the world, so I said “okay.” I walked into the shop where Pete was working on the alien. He showed me the sketch and I said “It looks perfect, except can the alien say ‘I like chicken’?” “Absolutely” said Pete and we were both standing in his little work station, cracking up. Because I have so many tattoos, I quit going for ones that have some soft, sentimental back story. I love to laugh and I like to be amused. I wake up to my alien every day and every day he makes me laugh.

Kayla sends us this poem:

Hellwave

Eleven tattoos and can’t stopwant my body covered/no space for that night at the fraternity house:body cracked open like glass.I want a needle in my skin.I’m the queen wasp thick and pissed off.My friends say girl you’re on the fringe/father likes to get me drunk/show off:This is my smart daughter. The pretty one’s at home.I know the push of a hand on the back of the head/faceful of cock/baby no teethdo what I tell you/stepfather’s raised fist: bitch I’ll hit you.At the Rock Room, for a tit grabit’s all-you-can-drink-all-night.I’ll suck you off for a joint.I’m looking for my studded Sid Vicious cliché:skinny punk with the bass guitar.He’s got the chain wallet, leans against his amp and almost looks alive.He rides a Fat Boy/he’ll get me out of here.We’ll ride the hellwave screaming.

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